


Five Times Steve Rogers Really Missed the Twenty-First Century

by inamorata527



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 14:34:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18741019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inamorata527/pseuds/inamorata527
Summary: Steve doesn't regret his choice. Usually.





	Five Times Steve Rogers Really Missed the Twenty-First Century

Steve regrets nothing about staying in the past. It’s like being able to breathe again. 

Mostly.

 

****  
 _1947_

 

Steve looks at his plate. Roast chicken, boiled carrots, biscuits--all prepared by their excellent cook Mrs. Duffus, who Steve and Peggy hired after several disastrous dinner-making attempts, one of which involved the fire department. Steve hasn’t quite lived down the fact that Captain America almost burned his house down (and suspects that as long as the local VFW exists, he never will). 

He cannot bring himself to eat anything on his plate.

“What’s wrong?” Peggy asks, looking up from her reports.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just woolgathering, I guess.” He smiles to put her at ease; she narrows her eyes slightly, but returns to her work.

He begins to eat, wishing it were shawarma, or maybe pad thai.

 

***  
 _1949_

 

Ricky McGugan makes his slow, halting way down the sidewalk one summer evening, encumbered by his leg braces and crutches.

“Evening, Captain Rogers! Mrs. Rogers!” he calls cheerfully to the porch.

“Hi, Ricky!” they call back as he passes them and continues down the street.

“Bloody shame,” Peggy says quietly. The ice rattles in her glass as she drinks. The evening is cool, and the crickets chirp.

Yes, Steve thinks; if only it were five or six years from now (or so; Steve has noticed small differences here from the history he assiduously studied in the twenty-first century). But of course he can’t say that, so he only agrees with Peggy and takes a drink of his own, thinking of the crutches and braces Tony could have made for Ricky. 

 

***  
 _1956_

Steve loathes cocktail parties. 

He’d hated them the first time around. Occasionally, now that he seems to attend them all the time (again), he tries to imagine Natasha in a floral pastel refreshing a drink for one of the guys, or Maria Hill smiling as her husband says something idiotic, or Fury or Sam or King T’Challa or Princess Shuri being in the room at all, and has to excuse himself so he won’t cry-laugh in front of all these men he can’t stand. 

He’s standing at the drink table in the foyer, picturing Clint clinging to the underside of the buffet table stealing cranberry meatballs and crab quiche, when he becomes aware that one of the women, Mrs. Davies, is leaving the large group near the fireplace in silent fury, and hears her husband say “It’s fine, she’ll be back in a minute.”

She approaches the table, her back straight and her face composed, and begins to mix a Manhattan. She’s barely five feet tall and pretty in a plain, elfin way that reminds Steve of the Irish girls he grew up with in Brooklyn. 

“Did you know,” she says conversationally--and Steve is already suppressing a grin, that tone of voice bodes ill--”that I have a degree in French and English literature? A double major, that is. I also speak Spanish, Italian, and German.”

“Impressive,” Steve says, meaning it.

“Thank you. I’m glad someone thinks so,” she says matter-of-factly, as Peggy arrives around the corner.

“Hello, Director Carter; thank you for your hospitality,” the woman says. “Forgive me for talking shop, but are there any secretarial positions open in the organization?”

“Mrs. Davies was just telling me she speaks four languages,” Steve interjects. He doesn’t want her to sell herself short, and she seems like she could use the assistance; she’s clearly at the end of her rope.

Peggy pauses. “Which?” she asks.

“French, Spanish, Italian, and German.”

“Fluently?”

“Yes.”

“How did you learn?”

“High school for French, college for the others. With supervised study, of course.”

“And you learned them with no prior background knowledge? How?”

“I...can’t really say. I guess as anyone does. I began with the basics, and went on from there.”

“To fluency in four foreign languages as an adult.”

“Yes, I suppose,” Mrs. Davies says after a brief pause, smiling, but discomfited. Steve can hardly blame her; Peggy’s full attention, especially to someone not prepared for it, is quite something. 

“You suppose?”

“I mean, I also spoke Irish at home as a child, and technically I speak conversational Russian and Greek because of my childhood neighbors, but--”

“Report on Monday, eight a.m., for preliminaries. Background, language testing, interview, physical, you understand.”

“Yes, of course,” Mrs. Davies says, rallying almost, but not quite, invisibly. “Thank you, Director. If I may impose further, may I use your phone?”

“Of course.”

Steve and Peggy both assiduously mix drinks as they listen like hawks to the newly fascinating Mrs. Davies, who, disappointingly, only calls a taxi. She returns and makes pleasant small talk with the others who arrive at the table until she sees the taxi pull up. Instead of taking her leave, she turns toward the living room. Peggy grabs Steve’s hand surreptitiously.

Mrs. Davies, deliberate as an assassin, walks back to the fireplace.

“Where have--” is all her husband gets out before she calmly throws the drink in his face.

“What the _hell_ , Bridget?” he snarls, dripping.

“Oh, you know quite well what the hell,” Bridget Davies says evenly into the shocked silence. “I’d wager most of the people in this room do as well. There’s a week’s worth of dinners at home, although I’m sure some woman will swoop in to save you long before that. Goodbye, Alan.”

As she makes her way across the room, Steve hears a clear “little piece of mick trash” rise over the escalating murmurs. Peggy grips his arm and shakes her head.

They watch, rapt, as Bridget walks over to the woman who spoke, who stands head and shoulders taller than she does, her blonde hair shining like a helmet and her face frozen in contempt.

“Three-fifty for thirty to forty minutes on the casseroles,” Bridget says, “and he’ll eat anything but artichokes. Although, of course, I think you know that already.” She smiles faintly and walks to the foyer.

“Captain Rogers, Director Carter. I apologize for the waste of spirits.”

“There’s only one waste in this house, currently, and it’s certainly not the whiskey,” Peggy says, slanting a glance towards the fireplace.

“Again, thank you for the hospitality. I’m looking forward to Monday.”

Steve has never been prouder to open the door for someone. “Goodnight, Mrs. Davies,” he says, barely able to contain his glee.

“Miss O’Shaughnessy, please,” she says, and walks down to her taxi.

“Sorry, Peg,” he says as they watch the car drive away, “when the divorce goes through, I’m marrying her.”

“Not if I ask her first,” Peggy replies.

 

***  
 _1962_

Peggy is standing very still. Her voice is shaking.

“Steve,” she says clearly and deliberately, “is it going to be all right?”

A crisp autumn air drifts in the window. Outside, the trees are a riot of golds and reds and oranges. They can smell woodsmoke and hear blessedly oblivious children laughing and throwing leaves.

And yet, the news on the silenced television in the corner belies all that. Every day, it seems more and more inevitable; humanity is going to make its final tragic mistake.

“ _Steve_.”

“I don’t know,” he finally says, helplessly. 

“Yes, you do,” she says fiercely, the tiptoed-around secret of the last fifteen years laid bare. “I know you know, Steve, you just _know_ things sometimes and I don’t know why or how but for this? Don’t you dare fucking lie to me, _don’t lie to me, Steve_ \--”

“Peg,” he says, and gathers her into his arms, surprised she’s letting him. He can feel her whole body shaking, and she’s trying not to cry.

After a few minutes in which Steve weighs things he’s pretty sure no other human has ever had to consider against lying to his wife, he says “Honey, I really don’t know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I love you.” He just keeps saying that, stroking her hair, holding her in his arms, listening to the laughter of the kids outside as the news plays on.

The world’s going to have to save itself, or not, this time. 

He has never missed his team--his friends--so fiercely.

 

***  
 _1975_

“Steve! I’ll be damned. Look at you. Leaving the rest of us poor bastards in the dust.”

Steve laughs, genuinely, and shakes Howard’s hand. “Howard. It’s good to see you.” 

“How’s Peggy?”

“Going from strength to strength. They tried to get her to retire.”

Howard barked a laugh. “Nice try. Death himself will wait for Peggy Carter’s permission.”

“How’s...the family?” Steve asks,

“Oh, they’re great. Just fine.” Howard pulls out a picture from his wallet. It’s Maria and five-year-old Tony on the beach, both of them grinning, and Tony is so exactly the brilliant, vibrant little shit Steve--met? Will meet?--thirty-five years or so from now that he feels like he’s been punched in the chest.

“Great picture,” he manages in what he hopes is a normal tone of voice.

“Yeah,” Howard says fondly. “You know, Rogers, this kid…” He trails off happily. “You know what? I’m nothing next to him. Yeah, I’m smart, but my kid is a goddamn marvel. He’s going to change the world.” 

Steve opens his mouth to say--what? _Howard, spend more time with him, show him you love him, don’t get in the car that night, you have no idea what you will miss, he is worth everything and he’ll never really believe it and sacrifice himself over and over again and save us all_ \--but after a moment, what he finally says is:

“I believe it.”

 

***  
Epilogue

_2030_

 

Pepper opens the door to his knock.

“Hey, Pepper,” he says. 

“Steve,” she says warmly, and embraces him. “Thanks for coming. How was your trip?”

“Fine, thanks. You look great, kid.”

“Kid,” she snorts. “They offered me the senior coffee the other day.”

“I’ve been offered senior coffees longer than you’ve been alive,” he says, and they both cackle. Like old people.

“Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” he says, and she leads him upstairs to a large room, with windows onto the lake and skylights showing trees and blue sky. Seated on the huge sectional sofa is a preteen girl with Pepper’s build and grace, but who is otherwise a copy of her long-dead father.

“Hello, Morgan,” he says. “I’m Steve Rogers.”

She shakes his hand and regards him with brightdark eyes under a long fringe of hair. 

“Hi,” she says. “Thanks for coming. Sorry to pull you away from shuffleboard, or contemplating your semi-immortality, or whatever hundred-year old retired government experiments do, but I’ve got questions and you’ve got answers, so---”she holds up a small recorder--”start talking, Stars and Stripes Literally Forever.”

“...Dear God,” Steve says.

“Yep,” Pepper replies.


End file.
